Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie Part 11

"It must have been terrible," said Ruth, "to lose one's brothers and fathers and cousins by bullet and sword."

"Yes, indeed!" sighed the lady. "Not that I can remembah it, child! No more than you can. I'm not so old as all that," and she laughed merrily.

"The Grogan plantation was gone, of course, long before I saw the light.

But my father was a broken man, disabled by the campaigns he went through."

"Isn't it terrible?" whispered Helen to her chum, for it sounded to the unsophisticated girl like a tale of recent happenings.

Miss Catalpa smiled, turning her sightless eyes up to them. "There's only Unc' Simmy and I left now. My lawyer, Kunnel Wildah, tells me there is barely enough left to keep us in this po' place till I'm called to my long rest," said the lady devoutly.

"But my wants are few. Uncle Simmy does for me most beautifully. He is the last of the family servants-bo'n himself on the old plantation. This was the gateway to the Grogan Place-and it was a mile from the house,"

and she laughed again-pleasantly, sweetly, and as carefree in sound as a bird's note. "The limits of the estate have shrunk, you see."

"It must be dreadful to have been rich, and then fall into poverty,"

Helen said, commiseratingly.

"Why, honey," said Miss Catalpa, cheerfully, "nothin' is dreadful in this wo'ld if we look at it right. All trials are sent for our blessin', if we take them right. Even my blindness," she added simply. "It must have been for my good that I was deprived of the boon of sight ten years ago-just when almost the last bit of money left to me seemed to have been lost. And I expect if I hadn't foolishly cried so much over the failure of the Needles Bank where the money was, and which seemed to be a total wreck, I would not have been totally blind. So the doctors tell me."

"Dear, dear!" murmured Helen, wiping her own eyes.

"But then, you see, there was enough saved from the wreckage after all to keep me alive," and Miss Catalpa smiled again. "All that troubles me is what will become of Uncle Simmy when I am gone. He insists on 'dribin de quality', as he calls it, and so earns a little something for himself. That livery he wears is the old Grogan livery. I expect it is a good deal faded by now," she laughed, adding: "Our old barouche, too! He insists on taking me out in it every pleasant Sunday. I can feel that the cus.h.i.+ons are ragged and that the wheels wobble. Po' Uncle Simmy! Ah!

here he is. Surely, Simmy, the rain hasn't stopped?"

"No'm, Miss Catalpa," said the old negro, appearing and bowing again.

"But mebbe 'twon't stop soon, an' deseyer young ladies want t' git back fo' luncheon at de hotel. I done fix' dat hood, misses. 'Twell keep yo'

dry."

Ruth took the lady's hand again. "I am glad to have met you," she said, her voice quite firm now. "If we stay long enough at the Point, may we come and see you again?"

"Sho'ly! Sho'ly, my dear," she said, drawing Ruth down to kiss her cheek. "I love to have you young people about me. Take good care of them, Uncle Simmy."

"Ya-as'm, Miss Catalpa- Ah sho' will."

She kissed Helen, too, and possibly felt the tears on the girl's cheek.

She patted the hand she held and whispered: "Don't weep for me, my dear.

I am going to a better and a brighter world some day, I know. I am not through with this one yet-and I love it. There is nothing to weep for."

"And if I were she I'd not only cry my eyes blind, but I'd cry them _out_!" whispered Helen to Ruth, as they followed the old coachman.

When they were out of ear-shot of the Lady of the Gatehouse Ruth asked: "Who keeps house for Miss Grogan, Uncle Simmy?"

"Fo' Miss Catalpa?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the negro. "Sho', missy, she don't need n.o.body but Unc' Simmy."

"There is no woman servant?"

"Lor' bress yo'," chuckled the black man, "ain't been no money to pay sarbents since dat Needleses' Bank done busted. Nebber _did_ hear tell o' sech a bustification as _dat_. Dar warn't re'lly nottin' lef' fo' de rats in de cellar. Das wot Kunnel Wildah say."

Ruth looked at the old man seriously and with a glance that saw right into the white soul that dwelt in his very black and crippled body: "Who launders her frocks so beautifully-and your trousers, Unc' Simmy?" was her innocent if somewhat impudent question.

"Ma ol' woman done hit till she up an' died 'bout eight 'r nine years ago," said the coachman.

"And _you_ have done it all since?"

"Oh, ya-as'm! ya-as'm!" exclaimed Unc' Simmy, briskly. "Miss Catalpa wouldn't feel right if she knowed anybody else did fo' her but me-No'm!"

Helen had gone ahead. The old man, his eyes lowered, stood before Ruth in the rain. The girl opened her purse quickly, selected a five dollar bill, and thrust it into his hand.

"Thank you, Unc' Simmy," she said firmly. "That's all I wanted to know."

A tear found a wrinkle in Unc' Simmy's lined face for a sluiceway; but the darkey was still smiling. "Lor' bress you', honey!" he murmured. "I dunno wot Unc' Simmy would do if 'twarn't fo' yo' rich folks from de Norf. Ah got a lot to t'ank you-uns for 'sides ma freedom! An' so's Miss Catalpa," he added, "on'y she don't know it."

"Come along, Ruth!" cried Helen, hopping into the old carriage, the cover of which was now lifted and tied into place. Then, when Ruth joined her and Unc' Simmy climbed to his seat and spread the oilcloth over his knees, she added, in a whisper: "I saw you, Ruth Fielding! Five dollars! Talk about _me_ being extravagant. Why, I gave him only two dollars for the whole ride."

"It was worth five to meet Miss Catalpa, wasn't it?" returned her chum, placidly. And in her own mind she was already thinking up a scheme by which the faithful old negro should be more substantially helped in his lifework of caring for his blind mistress.

CHAPTER VIII-UNDER THE UMBRELLA

The rain had not stopped-not by any means.

Ruth and Helen had never seen so much water fall in so short a time. The roadway, when Unc' Simmy drove out into it through the ruined gateway, was flooded from side to side. It was like driving through a red, muddy stream.

But the two girls were comparatively dry under the carriage top. They looked out at the drenched country side with interest, meantime talking together about the Lady of the Gatehouse, by which term they ever after spoke of Miss Catalpa.

"The last of one of the F.F.V.'s, I suppose," suggested Helen. "I wonder if Nettie's Aunt Rachel knows her. Nettie says Aunt Rachel knows everybody who is anybody, in the South."

"I fancy this family got through being well-known years ago. The poor little lady has been lost sight of, I suppose," Ruth said.

"Yes. All her old friends are dead."

"Except this old friend sitting up in front of us," Ruth said, smiling.

"Yes. Isn't he an old dear?" whispered Helen. "But I wonder if he shows his Miss Catalpa off to all the Northern people who come to the Point?"

Ruth was silent on this matter. Helen did not suspect yet what Ruth had discovered-that Unc' Simmy was the sole support of the little, blind lady; and Ruth thought she would not tell her chum just now. She wanted to think of some way of materially helping both the old coachman and the Lady of the Gatehouse.

Suddenly Helen uttered a squeal of surprise, and grabbed her friend's arm:

"Do look there, Ruth Fielding! Whom does that look like?"

Ruth came to her side of the carriage and craned her head out of the window to look forward. In the roadway on that side, a few yards ahead of the ambling horse, strode a figure in the rain that could not be mistaken. So narrow and mannish was the pedestrian that a stranger would scarcely think it a woman. The skirt clung to the rail-like limbs, while the straight coat and silk hat helped to make Miss Miggs look extremely like a man.

"And wet! That's no name for it," giggled Helen. "She's saturated right to the bone-and plenty of bone she has to be saturated to. Let's give her three cheers as we go by, Ruth."

"You horrid girl! nothing of the kind," cried Ruth Fielding, quite exercised. "We must take her in with us-the carriage will hold three.

Unc' Simmy!"